You are three. I am your
endless striped shirt.
Wash, dry, and fold.
At night you need the nightbird.
My hand on your chest.
Story voice: All the beating
thrashing wings will sleep now.
The system sleeps. The people
working and the people
resting, the spinner spinning
gold inside the castle.
The story almost completing itself—
roses twist up a wall.
There will be peace in houses that can afford it.
102 in the city today.
In the mountains, a zendo.
An ammo store opening.
You are twelve. You want
to binge the show but people are
going to die—
characters we love, probably
one of two we love
the most. You warn me.